dinner was home-made<\/p>\n
always experimental<\/p>\n
she\u2019d ask as we dug in<\/p>\n
how is it?<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 would you eat it again?<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 should I save the recipe?<\/em><\/p>\n dishing out some new concoction she had slaved over<\/p>\n It\u2019s called \u201cstroganoff\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n we all liked it well enough<\/p>\n and so, it was added to the pile<\/p>\n of other dishes deemed tasty enough to make again<\/p>\n maybe<\/p>\n <\/p>\n mother tried her best to cook at home<\/p>\n but I was too young to really learn<\/p>\n never helped in the kitchen<\/p>\n but I spent time in the garden<\/p>\n with my dad<\/p>\n seeding<\/p>\n weeding<\/p>\n harvesting<\/p>\n the fruits and vegetables mom cooked with<\/p>\n chop, chop, chop<\/em><\/p>\n the aromatic basil<\/p>\n and crisp zucchini<\/p>\n from the garden<\/p>\n prepared for an appearance in the next from-scratch lasagna<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I never lost sight of where my food came from<\/p>\n or how my meal made its way to my plate<\/p>\n while living in the rural country-side of Tennessee<\/p>\n for it was hard to<\/p>\n when every ingredient in every dish<\/p>\n went from farm to farmer\u2019s market<\/p>\n or backyard soil to wicker basket<\/p>\n and immediately onto the kitchen countertop.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n when life began moving too quickly<\/p>\n I began losing sight of how my meal made its way to my plate<\/p>\n I still went to the markets with dad<\/p>\n I still picked the ripe berries in my backyard brush<\/p>\n harvested the fresh vegetables from my soil garden<\/p>\n and cut the fresh herbs from my garden pot<\/p>\n and yet, I no longer watched my mother slave in the kitchen<\/p>\n ding. ding.<\/em><\/p>\n dinner was ready<\/p>\n fresh from the crockpot<\/p>\n and the rice cooker<\/p>\n yet I never learned the recipe<\/p>\n never watched the process<\/p>\n <\/p>\n living in a countryside<\/p>\n always left me isolated<\/p>\n from my friends<\/p>\n my sports teams<\/p>\n my school<\/p>\n grocery stores<\/p>\n and pre-made foods<\/p>\n It\u2019s peaceful out here ain\u2019t it<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n but a move to the city-center<\/p>\n brought light to all of that<\/p>\n suddenly meals with my family were rare<\/p>\n meals on the go were common<\/p>\n dishes were served in Styrofoam boxes<\/p>\n and plastic containers<\/p>\n hi, I\u2019d like to place a to-go order<\/em><\/p>\n any food I desired was mine<\/p>\n Chinese food, American fare Italian dishes<\/p>\n trout from Pickett\u2019s Ranch<\/em><\/p>\n veggies from Sequatchie Cove Farm<\/em><\/p>\n breads from Niedlov\u2019s<\/em><\/p>\n and pasta, of any shape or form, fresh from Tony\u2019s Kitchen<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Just give us 15 or 20 minutes,<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0and we\u2019ll have that ready for ya<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n sometimes we ate together<\/p>\n as a family<\/p>\n but never did we eat the same meal<\/p>\n even on noodle night<\/p>\n my mom had Italian pasta<\/p>\n every time a different sauce<\/p>\n my dad never settled for anything other than Pad Thai<\/p>\n level 3 spicy and always made with rice noodles<\/p>\n my brother would eat fresh from scratch ramen every day if he could<\/p>\n and he nearly did.<\/p>\n I ate zoodles or kelp noodles<\/p>\n or both together<\/p>\n drenched in spicy peanut sauce<\/p>\n sweet tangy tomato marinara<\/p>\n or creamy cashew cheese<\/p>\n <\/p>\n all of us get what we want<\/p>\n dishes that accommodate our diets<\/p>\n our restrictions<\/p>\n our desires<\/p>\n dishes that are quick and easy<\/p>\n dishes from someone else\u2019s local farm<\/p>\n to a disposable container<\/p>\n and eventually our dinner table<\/p>\n along-side the only home-prepared dish my family has mastered<\/p>\n the salad<\/p>\n complete the little gems grown on our porch<\/p>\n ripe cherry tomatoes<\/p>\n tender romaine lettuce<\/p>\n crunchy rainbow chard<\/p>\n aromatic herbs of every kind<\/p>\n everyone of them<\/p>\n alive and thriving<\/p>\n six stories above the earth<\/p>\n <\/p>\n now that I am older and living in a different city away from home<\/p>\n I know that keeping track of where my food comes from is not always easy<\/p>\n I have settled for to-go food that may not be locally sourced<\/p>\n meals on the go<\/p>\n and snacks plucked from the shelves of the supermarket<\/p>\n rather than my own pots and garden beds<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I never learned how to cook<\/p>\n <\/p>\n but if you ask me what I miss most about home<\/p>\n about what always brings a smile to my face<\/p>\n I always think of family dinners in the condo<\/p>\n using silverware from my own home<\/p>\n to eat food from Styrofoam boxes<\/p>\n and plastic containers<\/p>\n from the kitchens of our favorite restaurants<\/p>\n vegetable hash from Daily Ration<\/em><\/p>\n shrimp curry from Bitter Alibi<\/em><\/p>\n spicy peanut kelp noodles from Southern Squeeze<\/em><\/p>\n creamy cheesy vegan zoodles from Cashew<\/em><\/p>\n avocado ceviche from State of Confusion<\/em><\/p>\n the time-tested dishes I have grown to love<\/p>\n from the chefs I have never meet<\/p>\n using the fresh ingredients<\/p>\n from the farmers I have always known<\/p>\n they remain steady<\/p>\n a part of my family<\/p>\n regardless of the creator<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I chose to imitate \u201cwhere food comes from\u201d, one of the Saporoso<\/em> poems by Jennifer Barone. I chose this piece because it almost spoke to me in that I felt as though my experience with food was exactly opposite the author\u2019s in some respects, and closely aligned in others. It was striking for me to compare and contrast those experiences. I was able to witness the culture of the author, who presents a situation in which she watches her Italian relatives cook family recipes: all Italian, all passed down, all home-made. And yet, she herself never really learns how to cook from her family, or really bothers to learn where her food comes from while she is younger and living in New York. Then, when she grows older, she gets the chance to see food in its core, raw form: figs from the tree, fresh tomatoes from the vine, peppers, eggplants, herbs, etc. all from the garden. She was first able to gain these experiences in her neighbor\u2019s tiny make-shift garden. As she journeys through life, and explores the world, she apparently learns the joy of knowing where her food comes from, and therefore develops the skill of cooking, and learns the recipes of her family. Italian heritage and home-cooked meals are part of her cultural DNA. She makes this clear through her rhetoric, for she states, \u201ca meal has never been just a meal \/ it was our past time \/ the <\/em>reason to get together\u201d as well as \u201ceveryone would call to ask \/ so what are you making? <\/em>\/ a month before they would arrive.\u201d Through her diction, she illustrates the importance of meal-time in her family. Through mirroring her style, I realized the contrasts and similarities between her culture and my own.<\/p>\n I come from a very different background in terms of food, and yet I somehow relate to the writer. My mother cooked when I was young; she made home-made lasagna, shepard\u2019s pie, beef stroganoff, hand-rolled sushi, you name it. She never made these meals based on some family recipe, as she never had any. This is in great contrast to the culture of the writer, who was apparently accustomed to family recipes. My mother\u2019s mother is an American woman, who was raised in the 50\u2019s, a decade marked as the age of consumerism and convenience. The convenience meals of the era were seen as the wave of the future. They were trendy, and for a single-mother who never worked less than three jobs in an attempt to make ends meet, they were essential. My mom never formed an attachment to food, because she couldn\u2019t. Most of the time, it was not around. She never learned how to cook because quite literally, there was nothing to cook, and there wasn\u2019t any time\u2014she started babysitting at 12, and never stopped working. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When my brother and I came around decades later, and my mother finally had the opportunity to cook, she did, and she did it well, from what I am told. She bought cook-books and taught herself. She vowed that my brother and I would not grow up like she did\u2014we would have home-cooked meals, together, as a family, every night. By the time I entered middle school, however, and my mom was driving us to different schools and different sports practices. Eating together, became a \u201cmost of the time\u201d thing rather than a daily routine. My mother did not give up home cooking, but we apparently ate a lot of crock-pot meals, so that she did not have to allocate so much time to the process. At the same time, we lived deep in the country in Tennessee, so we also grew our own food at the time. We mostly had vegetables and fruits, but gardening was something my dad passed down to me. He always told me that there was nothing in this world that would allow for a stronger connection to food. He always encouraged me to be more in-tune with where my food comes from, for it is beneficial to both the mind and the body of the grower\/harvester. Furthermore, growing food locally allowed us the opportunity to reap the full chemical benefits. With a personal garden, we were able to decide what chemicals and fertilizers went into our gardens, and therefore we could eat organic produce, without the harsh price-tag. My mom used these items in the food that she prepared, and we snacked on the others she could not use. Just as I entered high school, however, we moved to the city. At this point, time was limited, which was a major reason for the move. I had soccer and cheer practice, my brother had crew and soccer with a different league and we couldn\u2019t afford to drive nearly an hour from our quaint country home to school, or sports leagues. My poor mother tried to cook, but with limited space, limited time, and a number of newly discovered food intolerances\/ preferences, it became more and more difficult.<\/p>\n After the move, we began living in a condo in the middle of downtown Chattanooga, so we had more restaurants within a 2-mile radius than I could even begin to count. The food in my city is characteristically fresh, local, and \u201ctransparent\u201d, meaning almost every ingredient in every dish served at the local restaurants can be traced back to their farm of origin: Crabtree Farms<\/em> produce, White Oak Valley<\/em> Beef, Fall Creek Farm\u2019s<\/em> goat milk and heirloom vegetables, Cloudcrest <\/em>and Sequatchie Cove Farms\u2019<\/em> dairy and eggs, 2 Angels\u2019<\/em> mushrooms, Springer Mountain Farm\u2019s<\/em> chicken, Pickett\u2019s Ranch<\/em> trout, wild boar. Dietary restrictions, a lack of time and an abundance of fresh, local, prepared food just moments away lead to a shift in my family\u2019s dining patterns. We instead opted for to-go food for almost every meal. We still make our own salads from the produce we grow on our porch, and we eat together most of the time when we can, but all of that aside I do not remember ever watching my mom cook. I vaguely remember the crock-pot meals, but all of that happened when I was too young to really remember. For the most part, since I turned 14, I learned how to prepare food, (throw together a salad, chop veggies for a snack, etc.) and I learned how to place a to-go order like a professional, but I never did learn how to cook.<\/p>\n Nonetheless, I never lost my passion for growing food, and ensuring I knew exactly where my food comes from. Yes, there was a time in my life when I indulged in Chick-fil-a<\/em>, and sure I still have no clue where those chickens were from and how they lived. But for the most part, I know where my food comes from. I have visited the farms that I mentioned above, and more. I have met the farmers at the markets. I have held the fish. I have picked the veggies. I have volunteered my time to pull the delicious fruits directly from the branches. This is something I will never sacrifice, for harvesting my own food, and being mindful of its history, is more a part of my cultural DNA than knowing my own history. I do have the power to know where my food comes from. This is something that is, and always will be, integral to my eating patterns. Through writing this piece, I became more comfortable with this concept. My culture, the American culture, places nearly no importance on meal-time, and food awareness. The farming culture, my culture that comes from my dad\u2019s side, makes it so that I am much more conscious about my eating patterns than most, despite the fact that I do not cook. I think about my food. I never randomly eat. I eat with full awareness of how that food nourishes my body, and how those ingredients came into existence. Writing about my eating patterns has made me realize that I do, in fact, have a unique food culture, despite never really cooking.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" dinner was home-made always experimental she\u2019d ask as we dug in how is it? \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 would you eat it again? \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 should I save the recipe? dishing out some new concoction she had slaved over It\u2019s called \u201cstroganoff\u201d we all liked it well enough and so, it was added to the pile of other dishes … <\/p>\n